


all that we cannot touch with our hands

by mellyflori



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-30
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-06 21:05:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1872435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyflori/pseuds/mellyflori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her finger pokes at his chest. “First of all, you love it when I’m undignified.  And second, if you’d just listen to me I can tell you how to make this situation work for you."</p><p>Aramis cocks an eyebrow.  She knows her audience.</p><p>She curls her hand around his arm, patting it reassuringly.  “The trick, my friend, is that you’ve got to own it.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	all that we cannot touch with our hands

**Author's Note:**

> As before, breathtaken is a terrible influence. This time with "aramis gets reading glasses." Also, I will now begin referring to ceeturnalia as my Comma Dominatrix as she is in charge of making my punctuation behave. Imaginings of her outfit for this role are best left to your own imagination, I will only supply the fact that she has fantastic legs.

"And near the bottom is Madame’s schedule for the coming month, I’d like to review it before we go in to the weekly scheduling meeting.”

Aramis takes the paper from Mme. Anne’s personal assistant and smiles indulgently. “But of course, my dear Madame Bonacieux. Anything for you.”

He looks down to where her finger indicates the schedule starts and squints, very slightly. Aramis moves the paper further from his face, pleased to see the days of the week come in to focus.

Constance’s withdraws her finger, flicking Aramis lightly on the tip of his nose. “You know, you could-“

“No.”

“But they wouldn’t have to be-‘

“No.”

“Why are you letting your vanity stand in the-“

“It’s not vanity, they are simply not necessary. Don’t snort, Constance, it’s undignified. And don’t do that with your eyes, they’ll roll right out of your head and we’ll have to fetch them from under the desk.”

Her finger pokes at his chest. “First of all, you love it when I’m undignified. And second, if you’d just listen to me I can tell you how to make this situation work for you."

Aramis cocks an eyebrow. She knows her audience.

She curls her hand around his arm, patting it reassuringly. “The trick, my friend, is that you’ve got to _own_ it.”

********************

Athos is already in the conference room when Aramis arrives. He doesn’t look up from his papers as he says “I’ve put the draft reports of last week’s press events in your stack. Please make notes where you feel appropriate.”

Aramis pulls his new reading glasses from the case on the table and opens the stack to Monday.

He’s on Wednesday afternoon, the tip of his pen between his teeth, when his concentration is interrupted by the dull thump of Porthos walking into the doorframe of the conference room. Then, a second later, by the thump of d’Artagnan walking into the back of Porthos. Aramis looks up to see them staring, stunned. 

“What are you doing?” Porthos asks. 

“I’m finishing my notes on last week’s press events.”

“No, I mean, what are you doing with _those_?"

Aramis looks down at himself, his face a mask of innocence, as though he were trying to see what Porthos finds objectionable. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbows and the tendons in his forearms flex as he pats lightly at his soft flannel button-down, as though he were checking for a sudden outbreak of tie-dye or a mismatched pocket square. The collar pulls wider, exposing more of his neck, when he shrugs. 

“They’re my clothes, Porthos. And, as far as I can tell, they appear to be all present and appropriate.” Aramis’s long fingers come up to hold the frames of the reading glasses, sliding them off his face until the curve of one earpiece tip is denting his bottom lip. He raises his eyebrows in query. “You don’t mean my glasses, do you? They’re for reading, Porthos. Constance finally convinced me I should have them."

Porthos just shakes his head and makes his way around the table to take his usual spot at Athos’s left. Aramis smiles beatifically, and slides the glasses back up on to his nose, raking one hand through his hair. The curls settle around his temples, framing his face the same way the glasses do. D’Artagnan stumbles and kicks the leg of the table.

Athos’s tone is a warning. “Aramis, there’s no need to exacerbate the situation. Their mere presence is doing enough damage.”

“Fucking obscene is what they are,” Porthos says. When Aramis flicks his eyes in Porthos’s direction and looks at him over the top of the glasses he can hear the sound of a pen snapping in his huge hand and a dry, clicking swallow from d’Artagnan.  


Aramis looks unrepentant and flips to Thursday in the recap report. He shrugs. “I’m owning it.” 

Athos sighs and hopes Constance is pleased with herself. 

(She is.)


End file.
